


Extremist Means

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Kissing, M/M, Rimming, Season 2 spoilers, Sexual Content, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, Wordcount: 5.000-15.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-10
Updated: 2011-04-10
Packaged: 2017-10-17 21:25:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/181304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's deal comes due, and Sam gets him back. Returning to the world is an experience unto itself, and of course Wincest ensues.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Extremist Means

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Extremist Means](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1133441) by [nikolaschika](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nikolaschika/pseuds/nikolaschika)



The deal goes down exactly the way it's supposed to, and in the end Sam can't save him. Dean doesn't try to console his brother before he goes, because all it will get them is another useless fight to remember and regret. He just slips out into the sunset and heads for the crossroads. Meets the Red-Eyed Bitch halfway so her hounds don't have to come calling.

It all goes quickly after that, the taste of sulfur on her breath and the crust of the Earth closing over his head, hellfire licking at him and the rush of agony closing in.

It doesn't last, and maybe he saw it coming from the second he made his deal. Sam marches right into hell and demands Dean back. Dean is fuzzy on the details, doesn't get how that works and is pretty sure he doesn't _want_ to, as Sam's eyes burn and Hell evaporates behind them.

   
   
Next thing Dean is aware of, he's walking. They both are, Sam perfectly in step beside him, and the landscape is an unnatural gray. They're not in Hell anymore, but they're not out yet either, and Dean feels (without knowing quite why) that it's a long way back. Everything is fuzzy and disjointed, the world uncertain around him. It feels like they've been walking for weeks, and maybe they have.

He has blurrily edged memory that solidifies slowly into _now_ , trudging silent through a shifting landscape. An angry forest surrounds them at the moment, colorless and blank, a scrubby footpath passing under their feet. It was an empty warehouse at one point, a vacant cornfield before that, and he vaguely recalls an abandoned fairground. All of it washed out, identical shades of no color at all, same as the trees that currently stage their pace.

He marches silent for awhile, keeping his mouth shut through a span of time he can't quite measure, two or three more shifts of the scenery. He exchanges a couple of looks with Sam; all the communication he feels up to right now. His brother gives him a small, relieved smile and keeps leading him along in directions Dean doesn't even try to track.

They stop sometimes, but never for long. And Dean figures out pretty quickly that, wherever they are, normal bodily needs don't translate. He tries to eat a donut in a drab, empty diner, and it crumbles to dust in his mouth.

Sam laughs at the look on his face, and it's the first real sound Dean has heard in god only _knows_ how long. It's only then he realizes how much he missed it, sound or laughter, or maybe just the familiar ring of Sam's voice, but he's goddamn grateful for it.

So grateful he doesn't even mind when his brother follows the snicker up with, " _Duh_ , Dean. Nothing here is real."

It doesn't stop him from scowling righteously at Sam's mocking tone of voice. His mouth still tastes of ash, and really, it's the principal of the thing.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They're in the stretching hallway of a high-rise office building when Dean finally finds enough of his voice to ask, "What did you pull, Sam?"

Sam pauses in his stride, and the sudden halt forces Dean to stop and _look_ at his brother. The smile he finds waiting for him is such a surprise his head spins.

"Sam?" he presses, approaching cautiously and scanning his brother's eyes for… he doesn't _know_ what, exactly, but he'll know it if he sees it.

"Sorry," Sam says, just before the pause stretches truly worrisome. Dean watches him shake himself visibly, shedding some intangible weight from his shoulders. "I just… I was starting to think you weren't going to talk again."

"What? _Why_?"

"You didn't say anything after the _donut_ , dude." Which, okay, he didn't. And he's not sure why that's only now striking him as strange.

"Didn't really have anything to say," he offers lamely, shrugging as he rubs at the back of his neck.

Sam is still smiling, relief shining clear in his eyes, and when Sam hugs him, Dean is startled by the sudden touch but not all that surprised at the gesture. He puts up with it for a magnanimously long stretch of minutes, right up until he remembers that there are other Very Important Things Sam is supposed to be telling him. He wiggles free of his brother's hold, ignoring the frustrated huff of air, and levels a gauging look to meet Sam's suddenly cautious expression.

"Don't evade me, dude," Dean warns. "You didn't answer my question."

"God _damn_ , Dean. Give a guy a minute, would you? I'm just glad you're talking to me." Except there's something calculating in Sam's voice now. It wasn't there amidst the genuine relief seconds before, and Dean refuses to get sidetracked again.

"What did you do?" he asks. He doesn't feel particularly reassured when Sam looks away instead of answering him. " _Sam_? You don't just walk into Hell and then walk out again like it's nothing. No one can do that."

"You're right," Sam concedes, suddenly meeting his eyes, and Dean almost wishes he hadn't pushed. There's a glimpse there. Dean catches it, and he's pretty sure Sam meant him to. It reflects behind his brother's eyes, something dark and powerful and a little bit terrifying.

It vanishes with the moment. Sam's face slides apologetic, almost sad, and Dean doesn't know what to say.

So he says nothing, and when they resume their pace it's in reluctant silence.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"You shouldn't have come, Sam," Dean says when they've been traversing a dreary parking lot for too long. Wind traces around them, as fake as everything else, and the painted lines on the pavement are supposed to be yellow.

" _Excuse_ me?" Sam freezes in his stride, and Dean knows the offended tone is a warning.

"You shouldn't have come," he repeats anyway. "You should've just left me."

And of _course_ Sam is pissed. Dean can read it in the painful tension across his shoulders, the grinding set to his jaw, the smoldering stillness that singes the space his response should fill.

"I mean it, man," says Dean, forces himself not to flinch. "Whatever you had to trade or give up… It can't be worth it."

"Fuck you, Dean." Sam's voice is gravel and sharp-edged glass, and he turns to glower across a flat horizon. Dean can tell what Sam really _meant_ to say was 'go to hell', but that's not a figure of speech anymore, and Sam will never say it again.

"Sam, if this changed you, if it hurt your soul somehow--"

"Dean." Sam looms suddenly in his face, intent and menacing, and his breath on Dean's skin is so much more real than the almost-wind around them that he burns with it. "Even if it had. Even if my soul weren't already tarnished to shit. None of it matters anymore. Hell can't hold me."

The words should be terrifying. They stick in his heart but don't quite register over the furious set of Sam's scowl. It should be caution enough, but Dean never _did_ know when to back down.

" _Why_?" he demands. "Why couldn't you just leave well enough alone?"

Sam's voice is ice when he says, "Like you?"

"That was different," Dean insists, feeling the frozen accusation lodge low in his gut.

"How?" And now it's fire instead, Sam's voice shaking on the words. "How was it supposed to be _any_ easier for me to let _you_ go?"

Dean doesn't really have an answer to that, not one that will mean a damn to his brother, so he doesn't try. The silence settles between them again, obstinate as ever, and their feet keep right on carrying them forward.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They bicker more frequently after that, big and little things alike, setting them off like the floodgates thrown open.

Even the fighting is a relief after so much muffled quiet. Half the time Dean wonders if they're just doing it to hear each others' voices, wonders if Sam is clinging to their frustrated exchanges the way _he_ is. It wouldn't surprise him in the least.

But their spats, both minor and not-so-minor alike, drag Dean to the unavoidable conclusion that this is still _Sam_. Despite that terrifying split-second glimpse Sam gave him, and all the knowledge Dean can't pretend away about Hell and things humans Just Can't Do, it's still his _brother_ trudging at his side and snipping angry retorts.

Dean isn't sure how to reconcile them, his gnawing worry and the insistent certainty that his brother is here and whole, so he doesn't try. Wraps it up and tucks it away for later.

In the meantime, he decides on a question that won't deliberately bait his brother. He doesn't want to fight anymore, but he's long since gotten bored of this new setting, sprawling beach and static surf beneath their steps.

"Hey," he says, nudging Sam with an elbow. "How long 'til we get out of here?"

"Not sure," says Sam, and that's really _not_ an answer Dean was hoping for. "Time doesn't work right here."

"I'd noticed," Dean mutters. "What is this place, anyway?"

"Purgatory, I guess." Dean watches Sam glance around at their empty surroundings. "Or something like it. We're not really supposed to move through it like we're doing."

Dean isn't really surprised.

"It's probably bad to make a hobby out of violating the laws of existence, Sammy," he points out, gratified when Sam laughs.

"Yeah, well. Since when do Winchesters follow _rules_?"

"Since never," Dean concedes, gives a small quirk of a smile.

The silence, when it takes them this time, is less grating, and Dean breathes relief into the dull, gray air.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It's not until he thinks about it really hard that Dean realizes he's got no clear memories of Hell. Even though he's pretty sure time didn't work right _there_ either and he'd already been burning for half an eternity. Even though they're not out and free yet.

He knows the memories should be there, that they _existed_ , but the knowledge is completely abstract. He can almost feel them shifting, the shadows of memories he doesn't have anymore, off past the periphery of his thoughts. It's probably a bad idea to poke at the fuzzy film of a barrier holding them off, but he does it anyway. It gets him precisely nowhere, worrying at it like a toothache.

"Stop that," Sam finally says. Dean looks up startled from watching his feet scuff at the shoulder of an anonymous, worn highway.

"Huh?"

"I said stop it. I don't think you can knock anything loose, but I'd _really_ rather you didn't try."

" _You_ did this?" Dean realizes he's not particularly surprised, but he stops walking all the same, refuses to budge when Sam levels a tired look at him.

"Dean--"

"Were you ever going to mention that you can read minds now?"

"I can do a lot of things now." Sam's tone is careful. So much so that Dean doesn't even know what to make of it, but he bristles at the new information and tries to unclench his jaw.

"And you did this," he repeats, gesturing vaguely toward his own head.

"You didn't need those memories," Sam informs him, all matter of fact and no sign of regret. "They're nothing but pain. And, yeah, I blocked them off so they couldn't touch you."

The words kindle a sharp spike of conflicting reactions in Dean's gut, equal parts terror and fury. He meets Sam's indecipherable stare and feels his face burn, anger winning well out over fear, and he jabs a finger hard at Sam's chest.

"You had no right to mess with my head like that," he snarls, gearing up for a fight.

He's not expecting Sam to crumble, but that's exactly what happens. His brother's face falls, and the next second has Dean's heart seizing up in his chest at the desperate, wounded expression Sam turns on him.

"Please don't be angry at me," Sam begs, eyes shining wide and genuine. "Please. I _had_ to take them away, man, you don't _understand_ \--"

"So explain it to me." Dean fights to keep his voice hard, to keep from being cowed by the pleading note behind Sam's words. The thought of Sam poking around in his head, telling him what he can and can't remember, it urges bile up his throat.

"I can give them back if you want," says Sam, and that's not what Dean is expecting either. "But it might… Dean, they're memories of _Hell_. Never ending _torment_ , man. It was all I could do to partition them off in the first place."

Dean doesn't know what to say to that, so he doesn't try to interrupt. Waits it out as Sam scuffs a toe in the dirt and keeps talking.

"Please don't ask me to undo it. I don't want to watch you…" Sam apparently can't bring himself to finish that sentence and trails off into a nervous swallow. Braces himself before he can speak again. "Please, Dean. Just let me protect you from this."

And lightning-fast, Dean realizes he can't be angry. Not for this. He can't feel violated when Sam is staring at him with such naked desperation, and he swallows past the nervous edge in his own throat.

The revelation is followed close by another, that he _doesn't_ want any of it back. He can feel the enormity of knowledge behind that muffling wall, a sudden jolt of reminder that humans aren't supposed to know Hell and live to tell about it.

He's not sure what to make of the fact that Sam is capable of this. Of _more_ if he believes his brother's words, and why the hell shouldn't he? It says something, maybe, disconcerting and ominous, about his brother's psychic abilities and what they've become.

But as his anger dies away, so does his will to think about it. _Any_ of it. He's so tired that everything aches, no respite to be found in this bizarre failure of a place.

He utters a resigned, "Okay, Sammy," and starts moving again.

He has a sinking feeling that they've still got a long way to go.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

After he stops being pissed about the memories it takes three more shifts (from shopping mall to desert to weirdly ornate hallway) for Dean to find a whole new reason to panic. It takes that long for the point to sink home, that Sam's not just psychic, he's a goddamn _telepath_. And there's no question of _if_ he's been poking around in Dean's head, not after the conversation they just had, and it's suddenly all Dean can do to keep from hyperventilating.

Because the thing is, Dean has these thoughts. Inappropriate thoughts. Lots of them. About Sam. None of that emo, kicked puppy, secret longing crap. He's not in love with his brother.

But it's _been_ there. Hits him once in awhile, a thought of Sam that crosses every line there is, takes him out of brotherly bounds and lands him somewhere no-bad-wrong.

The first time it happened, Dean freaked right the hell out. The second, third and fifth times, too. But he got used to it eventually, and after that it was just this _thing_. He ignored it most of the time, got smacked upside the head anew every once in awhile. So maybe he jacked off thinking about Sam a couple times; it didn't really _mean_ anything.

And okay, maybe in the last year or so it's been hitting him a lot more often. Maybe jerking off to those thoughts in the shower has gradually transitioned from ' _once in awhile_ ' to ' _all the goddamn time_ '. It still doesn't mean anything. Still no big deal. As long as Sam stays clueless it can't ruin things between them. Dean doesn't need any more from his brother than he's getting (except maybe his goddamn _trust_ , but he's starting to realize that's asking too much). _This_ he doesn't need.

But if Sam's been poking around in Dean's head, he might've seen something. Dean knows the thought shouldn't terrify him, not when Sam came all the way to Hell to bring him home, but what if it changes everything? Of course Sam is going to see this through and get him back to the world. A Winchester always finishes the job. But what about after? What if Sam is freaked and pretending not to be? What if they get out of here and everything is jacked between them, screwed up beyond repair? There's no point to goddamn any of it without Sam, and maybe Dean is a little in love with his brother after all.

It's dangerous territory, trying to broach the subject without giving himself away. Dean wouldn't be sure how to do it even if this place _didn't_ have his head all turned around. He should probably take the time to figure out something tactful and cautious to say.

Instead he hears himself blurt out, "Did you see anything? When you were rearranging shit in my head?"

Sam looks at him like he's a little crazy, and maybe it's the frantic edge Dean tries and fails to keep out of the question. But there's worry in Sam's look, too, and Dean tries to regain a mask of calm to meet it head on.

"Anything like what?" Sam asks carefully.

"Anything… strange." That Sam doesn't immediately blush with recognition means they're probably in the clear, but what if it just means he's not so shitty at lying anymore? Suddenly Dean feels like a complete moron for saying anything, because all he's managed to do is draw his brother's attention.

"I… not really?" Sam still looks completely befuddled. "I didn't really go snooping around while I was in there, man. I just partitioned off the hellfire and got out."

"Good," says Dean, feeling foolish and frustrated. "That's good."

"Dean?"

When Sam steps close, hand outstretched and face all intense concern, Dean starts walking again. He keeps his face neutral, smirk in place, and throws Sam a look that's meant to reassure but probably isn't too convincing.

"It's nothing," he says, and prays his brother will back off. "Really. Just forget I brought it up."

"No." Of course Sam can't, and it figures he's already keeping stride. "Come on, man, _what_? Don't treat me like an idiot, just tell me what's up."

"I _can't_ tell you this," Dean says, and it's exactly the right thing to say if he wants Sam to never let it go.

"Of course you can. Dean--"

"No, I really can't." But he might as well surrender now, because there's no way around his brother's earnest intent. Sam's got the trail, and his worried puppy face is plastered on to stay.

His feet are still moving, but Dean feels suddenly numb, taut and confused at the mess in his own head. It shouldn't _matter_. It never has before. But Sam will never look at him the same if Dean lets on a truthful answer, and suddenly this is _everything_.

"Dean, seriously, you can't--"

"You'll be pissed at me," Dean barely whispers, and where the hell did that come from?

"So what?" Sam's got that look still, like he wonders if Dean hit his head on something. "That's nothing new. I'm _always_ pissed at you about _something_."

"Not like this," says Dean, his mouth stubbornly ignoring his brain's frantic commands to shut up and stop helping. He isn't surprised in the slightest when Sam grabs him by the wrist and jerks him to a stop.

"You're afraid I'll take off," Sam realizes aloud. "After all this, you think… For Christ's sake, Dean, everyone's got secrets. What kind of brother would I _be_ if--"

"You don't get it, man, you _can't_. I want--" Dean bites his tongue to keep from finishing that sentence, and it _must_ be something about this place throwing him off. He's not sure where all this crap is coming from, let alone why he suddenly can't keep himself from admitting it out loud. He knows he cut himself off too late, though, and Sam is looking at him like he's caught the scent of blood.

"You want _what_ , Dean?" The expression fades, and Sam is just befuddled now. "Seriously, dude. What can you possibly want that's so bad you're sure it'll send me running?"

Dean's lack of response is, in itself, probably not all that damning. Communication is for wimps, after all, or so he's always firmly attested. But the fact that he suddenly can't stop staring at Sam's mouth? That's more of a problem. Sam's a smart boy. He's probably putting two and two together right this second, but Dean can't be sure because Sam's mouth has him blindly, stupidly captivated.

"Holy shit," Sam whispers, fingers releasing their hold, and Dean recognizes the note of revelation. His eyes fly anywhere else they can. There's a faded, swirling carpet at their feet; a wall full of sculpted sconces; matching oak doors interspersed along the unending hallway. His gaze slides over all of them and can't be bothered to land, not until he finds himself staring Sam right in the face again.

Dean is braced, ready for the inevitable look of disgust. Disbelief and anger, sure, and he's ready to start groveling for Sam's forgiveness.

He's not prepared for the look he actually _finds_ on Sam's face. Scorching heat, and Dean's heart stutter-stops in his chest when Sam mutters a curse and fists fingers in the front of Dean's shirt. He uses the grip to propel Dean backwards, through one of a hundred identical doors thrown suddenly wide behind them.

Dean's eyes sweep the room, scoping on instinct and evaluating the space in a matter of seconds. Lack of color aside, the room is sickeningly ostentatious. A heatless fire crackles in a corner beneath an ornate mantle, antique lamps shine against the walls, and is that a canopy bed?

The door slams shut and draws Dean's attention back, hard and sudden, to the predatory glint in his brother's eyes. He has to be reading something wrong, has to be misinterpreting that look, because Sam doesn't--

The argument dies unresolved in his skull when Sam kisses him. Because apparently Sam does, hand still fisted in the fabric of Dean's shirt and clever tongue slipping to taste along his lower lip.

Dean's head is spinning with sensation and revelation, the flash in Sam's eyes, the burning grip of enormous hands, the tremor along his skin as his brother growls against his throat. Something about "should've told me" and "wasted time" and "god _damnit_ , Dean" all blurring together, indecipherable.

Dean doesn't know how it can feel so perfect and so wrong at the same time, the crushing heat of Sam's mouth so much _more_ than any of his idle fantasies prepared him for. Sam tastes incredible, feels alive and warm and welcome under Dean's hands even though he's not sure when he gave them the go ahead to start touching. His head spins with too much at once because yes, he's _wanted_ this. Wants it like crazy, even right this goddamn second, but he's never planned on _having_ it. Sam is his brother, and oh god, they can't _do_ this.

But his protests are useless, especially since he's not sure he even says them aloud, and maybe the room is silent when Sam isn't talking. Silent except for helpless gasps and hard breathing, and then Sam shatters it.

"I'm going to fuck you when we get out of here, Dean," he says, a whisper that shivers with barely restrained want, words between kisses along Dean's jaw. "Gonna shove you against a wall and make you take it. Or the floor. Maybe bend you over the hood of the car in the middle of a parking lot somewhere. Would you like that, Dean?"

" _Fuck_ , Sammy," Dean hisses, and it's all the coherence he can manage with Sam's hand working his fly open; shoving his pants down; taking a moment to lick a wet stripe across his palm before closing his fingers around Dean's dick.

"Not here." Sam bites at his ear. "Not yet. But soon. Waited too damn long already."

Dean whimpers into another kiss, helpless to do anything but buck against the sliding, squeezing, perfect grip of Sam's hand. He comes too fast, embarrassingly quick with his face buried against Sam's shoulder and his knees buckling.

Sam eases him down, all gentle finesse, and when Dean can support his own weight again Sam guides him a few steps further into the room. Far enough to reach that god-awful canopy bed, and Sam works his own belt free, his own pants down and off before dropping to the edge of the bed and leveling a pointed look up at Dean.

Dean wants to say ' _you must be joking_ ' or ' _what the hell is this, Sammy_ ' or _anything_ with a hope of helping him figure out what the hell Sam thinks they're doing. But his mouth is defiant again, apparently has priorities of its own, because instead he's dropping to the mottled gray carpet. His eyes hold locked with Sam's as his brother draws him close, into the space between parted knees, and guides him down with a hand at the nape of his neck, fingers agonizingly gentle as they brush absently through his hair.

It's been a hell of a long time since Dean's done this, but he's always been quick to remember physical skills. Apparently that holds just as true for giving head as it does for weapons training, and he works his tongue around the leaking tip of Sam's cock in a deliberate, taunting swirl. He watches, cheeks burning and attention rapt as Sam throws his head back and groans aloud.

It gets easier with each lick, taking Sam further and further down, one hand braced on his brother's thigh and the other moving and grasping along the base of Sam's cock in time with every swallow.

Sam must be close, maybe seconds away if Dean is reading the gasps and shudders right, when he surprises Dean again. Grabs at his face and forces him off mid-swallow.

"Sammy?" he asks, suddenly terrified he's done something wrong.

"Changed my mind." Sam's voice is rough. "I need to fuck you _now_."

Dean's world is still tilting as Sam maneuvers him onto the bed and gets them both more naked. Dean feels the faint press of the bedspread rough against his back when Sam covers him and kisses him hard. He gasps into the kiss when Sam's fingers trail down his stomach and encircle him again, coaxing his spent dick back to attention.

"Can I? Dean?" Sam's eyes are wide and searching, and Dean isn't even sure what his answer is going to be until he feels the nod of his head as he gives Sam permission.

Sam urges him onto his stomach, and Dean hisses surprise at the unexpected touch of Sam's tongue against his spine. It slides along his skin, intent and purposeful, interrupted now and then for the quick press of a kiss before Sam slips lower. It's less of a hiss and more of a whimper when Sam finally reaches his destination, and Dean wonders how he can feel like he's coming apart just from the hot, wet slick of his brother's tongue working him open.

He doesn't know how long it goes on through his own overload of writhing sensation, but eventually Sam's tongue is replaced by spit-slick fingers, twisting and scissoring, loosening his reluctant muscles, and Dean spreads his legs wider to accommodate the touch. Keens in the back of his throat when Sam brushes across just that spot inside him and teases at Dean's cock with his other hand.

"You're so goddamn pretty like this," Sam groans when he finally pulls his fingers free. "Coming apart for me, spreading yourself open just because I said so."

"You gonna talk or fuck me?" Dean demands, not sure where the steady tone comes from.

"Pretty when you're impatient, too."

"If you call me pretty one more time, I am _going_ to kick your ass," Dean warns, and then doesn't say much of anything else. Because Sam is spitting in his hand, slicking up his cock as best he can.

The burning press as Sam's dick slides into him should probably feel like pain, but it doesn't. Sam's touch is warm and real like nothing else in this place. The scorching intensity of Sam's lips laying kisses along his back, Sam's teeth laying instinctive claim along his throat as he slips in and in, until there's no further to go and Dean feels whole and filled and split apart in equal turns.

Sam stills like that, leans in over Dean's shoulder to kiss the side of his mouth. Dean turns his head to reciprocate, tastes gratitude in his brother's mouth. He groans into the kiss when Sam starts moving, feels the overload of sensation alongside the surreal edge of this _place_ that echoes Not Quite Right around them.

Sam comes first, forehead pressed between Dean's shoulder blades and breath panting in loud ragged gasps. His hips stutter and still altogether, a long moment passing before he closes a hand around Dean's dick and helps him follow right over the edge.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean is surprised Sam doesn't want to lay there and snuggle afterwards, but within moments they're both clean and clothed, Sam hustling them back out the door and into the pretentious corridor. The scenery shifts again as they walk, shriveled aisles of a greenhouse dissolving the hallway around them.

"Can't risk falling asleep," Sam explains, even though Dean didn't ask. He says nothing further, and Dean is left to surmise that something terrible happens if you fall asleep in this place. Dean is pretty sure they should both be collapsing from exhaustion by now, with how long they've been walking, but since time doesn't goddamn _work_ right he's not surprised anymore.

Once they're moving again it occurs to him that he probably couldn't sleep even if he _tried_. Not with the freak-out starting to settle inevitably upon his shoulders. His thoughts echo with ugly focus, a cacophony of unpleasant words. 'Brother' and 'wrong' and 'incest', and his stomach would churn if there were anything in it.

He wonders fleetingly if Sam, keeping pace all of two feet away, can hear the riot of panic in his head. Realizes when Sam meets him with wide, worried eyes that it doesn't matter one way or the other. It's all apparent on Dean's face, and Sam can't possibly need his psychic abilities to read it.

Dean drops his eyes to the dirt passing beneath their feet and tries to stuff it all safely away in the back of his head. It doesn't work, thoughts too loud and he blames this goddamn _place_. He's pretty sure his expression is screaming all the guilt-panic-fear, poker face be damned.

"So," Sam finally breaks into the silence, voice thin with concern and his hands jammed deep in his pockets. "How bad did I screw up back there?"

Dean gives it a moment. When no answer comes to him he asks, "You said something about wasted time. How long…?" He tapers off and leaves Sam to extrapolate the rest of the question. He's surprised at the dry bark of laughter, but Sam's face stays guarded.

"Let's just say it's been a stupidly long time and leave it at that."

"Why didn't you say anything?" The question earns him another incredulous snort.

"You're joking." Sam's face is all helpless disbelief. "Dean, be _serious_ , what was I supposed to say?"

"Forget it. You're right."

The moment settles awkward between them, and it's surreal beyond the confines of the not-quite-world surrounding them. Dean could swear he still feels the lingering shiver of his brother's touch, still tastes the quiet, stubborn flavor of _Sam_ under his tongue. He swallows and hunches his shoulders, but it offers no barrier to the reality hanging heavy between them.

"Besides," says Sam. "Even if I'd known… even if I'd _thought_ your head was in the same place as mine. It's bad policy to fall in love with your brother. _Worse_ policy to admit it."

Dean draws up short, eyes going wide. Sam stops almost as suddenly, jaw set in protest to whatever Dean is about to say.

Dean doesn't say _anything_ , because this is too much. He doesn't know what to do with this new information, doesn't get how Sam can just say it out loud like that. Like it's easy, like it's nothing, like it doesn't change goddamn _everything_.

Dean has had thoughts. About Sam. For a hell of a long time, but they were always just thoughts. And suddenly Sam is in _love_ with him, and he's just now figuring out he might be in love with _Sam_ , too. He's got no words for how newly, desperately screwed up this is, and his eyes drift to stare at a spot just over Sam's shoulder.

"Dean?" Sam whispers, stepping too close. "You're freaking me out here. Tell me what you're thinking."

"You're the psychic, Sammy," Dean says, and knows instantly that it's a mistake. When his gaze slips back to Sam's face, his brother's eyes are wide with hurt that he has to try and make right. "I'm sorry. I know you wouldn't--"

"Dean, please."

He's not sure what Sam is asking him for, but he knows he wants to give it. Soothe and reassure until he never has to see this look on his baby brother's face again.

"I don't know, man," Dean admits, and it's more honest than he meant to be. "I mean, _yeah_ , I thought about it before. I thought about it _plenty_. But--"

He isn't expecting Sam to kiss him again, not now, not sudden and needy and closing the space between them like it's nothing. But one second Sam is in his space, and the next second he has no space _left_. He opens his mouth, willingly accepts, blanks out his murky thoughts because there's a voice in his head suggesting that if Sam needs this, then he's got no refusal to give.

It's a long moment and a lot of tongue later that Sam finally draws back. They're standing at the base of a cliff now, and Sam's pupils are dilated as he steps away and stares Dean down. Dean meets that look as firmly as he can, but he can't prevent the shiver that runs his frame when Sam's gaze finally releases him.

"I'm sorry," Sam says, runs a hand through the back of his hair in a self-conscious gesture. "I can… I'll back off. If you want me to. Do you? Want me to?"

And that's not goddamn _fair_ , but what Dean says is, "I… don't know. I can't think here, man. Everything feels _wrong_ in this place, and…" He pauses to swallow, takes the moment to try and fail at organizing his thoughts. "Maybe… once we get back, maybe--"

"It's okay," Sam cuts him off. "I shouldn't have…" He looks downright sheepish (and a little bit shattered) and finally meets Dean's eyes again to say, "Forget it, okay? We'll talk about it when we're out."

Which apparently closes the discussion, and Dean feels a sharp gnaw of guilt at how desperately he appreciates the reprieve.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They've transitioned from the sidewalk outside a strip mall to yet another hallway, somehow emptier than any corridor previous, when Sam startles him by grabbing the nearest knob and yanking a door wide open.

There's actual color on the other side, and it's nearly blinding after the dull grays and hollow landscapes that have gone on what feels like forever. Dean can't look directly through the doorframe at first. He holds his hands out to block the view until his retinas stop feeling like they're on fire, and when he finally lowers them what he sees is nothing special.

It's a kitschy hotel room, one just like a thousand others they've lived and bled and slept in. The wallpaper is tessellated _turtles_ of all things, and a horrible seashell lamp glows from the corner. It casts its light on one of two beds, and the bed's occupant lies ashen and still. Dean blinks his surprise and throws a sharp look over his shoulder.

Sam is still standing there, amused smirk on his face and hand on the door, but Dean still sees his brother lying unconscious when his eyes slide back to light and color.

"End of the line," Sam beside him says, tapping his foot in mock impatience. "Get your ass out of here."

"Wait, what about you?"

"I'm already out there, dude. You might be able to see me if you squint." He laughs when Dean smacks him in the chest, but his expression slides serious again too quickly. "You'll have to wake me up."

"Sammy," Dean starts, wants to know more, but Sam gives him a hard, unexpected shove. It sends him over the threshold, and the door slams loudly behind him as he regains his balance and narrowly avoids landing in an undignified heap on the floor. Sure, there are no witnesses, Sam still passed out unhelpfully on the bed. But it's the principal of the thing, because Dean is, after all, a ninja.

It takes him awhile to wake Sam, and he nearly sends himself into a panic figuring it out. No amount of shaking and shouting does any good. He soaks Sam and hotel bed alike with glass after glass of cold water, and that makes no difference either. It takes him well over an hour (plus the moment to register how strange the perceptible passage of time feels) to detach and assess the situation as the puzzle it is.

Sam has obviously been out for a long time. Skin deathly pale, breathing slow and shallow, and his face is in desperate need of a shave. He smells like he's been in this bed for three days, and Dean wrinkles his nose as his eyes skim down along his brother's unconscious form.

The next moment he feels like a moron, because Sam is holding something in his left hand. Something that's obviously not a security blanket or a TV remote. It's some sort of talisman, glinting between long familiar fingers with the cord draped haphazardly across the bedspread from Sam's grip. Dean thinks about calling Bobby, not sure if there's some rule or ritual for taking the pendant away, but he decides against it. Chances are good that whatever Sam has done, Bobby doesn't know and wouldn't approve.

It's a risk, but a calculated one, when Dean simply grabs the cord and pulls the talisman from Sam's fingers, careful not to touch any more than he has to. He gets a split second glimpse of the vibrant red jewel before it splits down the middle with a resounding crack, fading to dull gray in an instant. Sam blinks his eyes, and it takes him a moment to focus a tired smile across the narrow space of the bed. Dean meets that look head on, and is surprised to find he still can't breathe.

They spend a long, gauche moment like that, Sam managing to sit up and Dean half crouched on the other side of the bed. Neither of them speaks, moves, _blinks_ until Sam reaches over and pries the cord from Dean's white-knuckled grip.

It's enough to break the spell of frozen silence, and Dean sucks in a breath edged in uncertainty. Sam is just _looking_ at him, quiet and expectant, and Dean doesn't know what he's supposed to say.

"Dude, you reek," is probably not the most poetic way to go, but it's true, and it earns him a quiet snicker. Sam's hand shakes a little when he drops the talisman to scrub at his face, and the momentary tremor is enough to kick Dean's protective instincts into high gear and decide his course.

"Seriously, man. Go take a shower. I'll grab some food for your sorry, malnourished ass."

Sam doesn't protest the plan. He even makes it to the bathroom under his own power, albeit on shaky legs. Dean has to fight to convince his feet to carry him down the street to the Arby's and back, barely noticing the bright sting of daylight, and when he returns it takes every scrap of willpower to keep from barging into the bathroom and checking on Sam. He sits on the bed that _doesn't_ stink, but he's fidgety and nervous, doesn't touch his food until he hears the shower turn off with no accompanying thump.

By the time Sam emerges, face freshly shaven and hair still damp, Dean has finished his own food and started pondering Sam's curly fries. He offers them over instead, selfless saint that he is, and watches in amused silence as Sam dives in with unusual vigor.

"How long has it been?" Dean asks when Sam licks the last vestiges of ketchup from his fingers. He doesn't bother with a clearer question, because they both know exactly what he means. How long was he down there, burning? How long did Sam have to search, alone and desperate and terrified, before finding a way to undo it?

"Dunno. Over a year, I think?" Sam says, _guesses_ , and his face is a careful blank as he tucks wrappers and cardboard back into the bag and chucks it into the waste basket across the room. Dean can't imagine, doesn't really want to. He hadn't made it two days without Sam.

"How?" he asks, and hates himself for needing to know. There are layers to the question that he's pretty sure Sam doesn't need psychic abilities to read. ' _What did you have to give_?' is in there. ' _What did you have to become_?' is what he really wants to know, and he's pretty sure it makes him the world's shittiest brother. But he has to know, because humans don't get to walk into Hell, definitely don't get to walk back out again, and even with his memory all fuzzy Dean is reasonably certain that's exactly what Sam did.

He's not all that surprised when Sam doesn't answer him. It should scare the piss out of him, but it's _still_ less terrifying than the other question he needs to ask. The one about just how much Sam remembers of what went down while they inched their way back to the world. Because he's not sure if it even counts, has _no_ idea what Sam knows, and being back in the real world has done nothing to help him sort out the mess of his own thoughts and feelings.

His face must give the game away, because Sam averts his eyes and says, "Yeah, Dean. I remember."

"Shit," Dean breathes. "Look. Sammy. I'm sorry, okay? I didn't--"

" _Dean_." Sam is suddenly in his space, finger settling forceful over his lips to command silence. "You've got nothing to apologize for." Dean can see more than that in his brother's eyes, an unspoken confession that they both know Dean can't process right now. He catches the other glint, too. The one that's impossible to misinterpret, especially once his brother's eyes drop to his mouth and hold there a beat too long. Dean tenses at the heat in that look and feels a shaky breath fill his lungs.

"Relax, dude," says Sam, sliding back a safe distance in the space of a heartbeat. "I said I'd back off. We can talk about it later, okay? Just… whenever you're ready."

"You sure?" Dean asks, can't quite believe the genuine calm spreading so easily across his brother's face.

"Yeah, Dean. You just say when. I won't bring it up until then."

It's exactly what he needs to hear, and even as he hates himself for needing that reprieve, he feels a desperate weight lift from his chest. Sam won't push it, won't keep invading his space and making it impossible to think. Sam is looking at him, calm and content and maybe even a little bit _happy_ , and if it's a mask then it's a damn good one.

Sam won't press the issue until he says 'when', and Dean is pretty sure he can live with that for now.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Within the hour they pack up and drive just to be elsewhere. Sam has been stationary for at least a couple days, and that's enough to make them both edgy.

They drive straight through a gray day that still looks bright and vibrant to Dean's unaccustomed eyes, and it's almost enough to keep him from worrying at his new collection of fears and thoughts and _Sam_. Almost but not quite, and the more he turns everything over in his head, the less sense he can make of it. He doesn't know if Sam will _ever_ give him the full story, what he had to do to get Dean out. And if he's going to be honest with himself, Dean is torn between frustration and relief, because he's not sure he wants to know.

But there are other questions between them now. _Obvious_ questions with no real answers. Everything feels uncertain with all the lines they've crossed, and Dean is pretty sure the worried glances Sam keeps throwing him mean his brother feels it, too.

He spends about five minutes trying to convince himself that sex and confessions in that gray unreality don't count. What happens in Purgatory stays in Purgatory. Except the logic doesn't hold against the crystal clear memory of Sam's hands on him, wrong and perfect and completely unforgettable.

There's no undoing the fact that he fucked his brother back there, and no matter how many laps his brain runs around the conundrum, it's not going away. He's going to have to deal with it or go mad, and the frustrated tangle of his own feelings only complicates the fact that he _knows_ how badly his brother wants this. Dean's got no idea what comes now, and no clue how they got here.

With no intended destination, they finally just stop when it feels right. Dean waits in the car while Sam gets them a room at a little family-owned spot off of I-80. The place boasts of homey atmosphere, cable TV and free wireless access, and Dean parks outside room 16 and grabs their duffels. He's busy tripping over the oddly raised threshold when he hears Sam laugh and say his name, a foot ahead of him and already in the room.

"What?" he asks, kicking the door shut behind him.

When Sam doesn't answer, Dean looks up and sees it for himself. It's bright and gaudy and glows from one corner of the room. An obviously plastic pine done up in rainbow lights and tinsel, and Dean's eyes pop wide with amused surprise and a little bit of horror.

He glances at Sam, who's still grinning like an idiot, and his blood thrums with hope at the sight. It's the first free, genuine smile Dean has seen on Sam's face in an eternity. He tries not to dwell on how literal that might be as he takes it in, feeling stupid and grateful as he wills the moment to stretch out forever.

"Dean, I completely forgot," Sam says, meeting his eyes with an honest to god _twinkle_. "It's _Christmas_!"

And suddenly Dean is grinning, too. He can't help it, feels something lift and lighten in his chest at the sight of Sam's big, stupid smile and the ridiculous farce of a tree behind him. Everything fits perfectly in that instant, Hell behind him and Sam in front of him, and he suddenly doesn't see any reason they shouldn't have this. There are still angles, elements, reasons it's a bad idea, but for once Dean decides not to over think it.

Instead, he steps across the space that shouldn't be between them and pulls Sam down against him. He presses as close as he can, mouth greedy, fingers in Sam's hair and taking charge of the moment while Sam hovers in startled stillness. He doesn't stay frozen long, grabs Dean right back and holds on as the kiss intensifies between them, hot and real and a little bit awkward.

They're both grinning and breathless when they pull apart, but Dean can see the unspoken worry behind Sam's eyes. He needs to smooth it away and reassure, even though he's not sure himself where all this newfound certainty comes from. It's almost a gamble, a bet that he can hold on and follow through, and the stakes are everything it will take to make this work.

"Hey, Sam?" he says, one hand resting over Sam's heart and the other still tangled in his brother's stupidly long hair. He keeps his voice deliberately light and tries to let the chick-flick moment sparkle unhindered through his eyes.

"Yeah?" Sam asks, a little wary.

" _When_."

It takes Sam a moment to figure it out, and Dean barely contains his amused smirk as dawning revelation spreads across his brother's face, so slow it's comical. He can tell the instant Sam really gets it, smile spreading wider still, and Dean can't believe how _simple_ this is.

They've still got shit to figure out. Sam still has the ability to walk into Hell and demand his brother's return, still went and twisted the laws of existence to get Dean back. There's still the whole 'incest' problem, and Dean isn't deluded enough to hope _that_ won't come back to bite them in the ass.

But for the moment he's alive, he has Sam, and there's a big, bright plastic excuse for a Christmas tree in the corner that (among other things) proves he's not in Hell anymore. He's got a second chance, which is more than he has any right to. The rest can wait.

"Hey," Dean says, still pressed close enough to whisper in his brother's ear.

"Yeah?"

"Merry goddamn Christmas."

It earns him a laugh and a smirk and a moment close to perfect as Sam leans down and kisses him again.


End file.
